Memories: Book One
by Ayaia of the Moon
Summary: What Edmund remembers. Set in LWW. Similar to my "Taste of Freedom" in several ways, and yet different. :D To Be Continued pending inspiration or request. Whichever comes first. :D Rated T-ish. Angst. Reviews Adored.


He remembered her cold hands – how her fur was the only warm thing about her. He remembered how good the cocoa had felt in his hands. He remembered her gentle touch. He remembered how everything about that moment had dominated his thoughts; how he couldn't wait to see her again, because ever since he'd sat with her in her sleigh, he'd felt feverish. He wasn't sure how he knew, but he somehow _did_ know that it was a heat that only she could cure. Wanting her cold comfort nearly drove him mad.

He remembered how cold he felt leaving his siblings. How he'd ignored it, knowing that he'd be with _her_ again soon, drinking more cocoa and finally satiating his desire to see her again. He remembered how cold he'd felt when he'd seen her angry face and realized the truth; her warm, loving demeanor had been a façade. Someone as cold as she was could not generate warmth. Only pretend it.

He remembered when he couldn't feel his toes. How he'd been afraid to remove his shoes, because they were offering another layer between the iciness and his skin. He'd seen the frozen hoofs of the prisoner in the next cell, and felt a surge of uneasiness at the glimpse of his own future if he didn't get feeling into his limbs soon.

He remembered the first feelings of terror that he'd felt – after _she_ had turned the fawn to stone. After she'd revealed that the fawn was, indeed, the same Mr. Tumnus Lucy had carried on about, and that he'd been the creature's betrayer. He remembered how shocked he'd felt when she'd struck him – how much it had hurt. He remembered still trying to save face and not cry, even though the force of the blow had drawn blood. He remembered how surprised he'd been to see the red droplets on his collar and on the ice below him – because his face had been so numb he couldn't feel the wound oozing blood. He could only feel the stinging sensation as the cold bit into his flesh through the open cut.

He remembered when the days blended together. How it was harder for him to remember a time he wasn't miserable, cold, hungry, and petrified. And oh, he ached with pain. He remembered when he was desperate enough to eat whatever they gave him – the mealy bread he'd turned his nose at seemed a king's feast compared to the scraps they tossed him – when they remembered that he needed feeding at all.

He remembered when the army grew, and _she_ wasn't near him all the time. How it started with the dwarves throwing things at him, but had become the larger creatures talking of making him their plaything. Or their meal. He remembered wondering what he preferred – the attention from the dark creatures, or the deliberate _inattention_ of the witch.

He remembered when he stopped speaking. How hard it was at that point to continue on, when they hadn't fed him, and he'd been walking in the melted snow for what seemed like years, and talking wasn't worth the effort. How they hadn't noticed.

He remembered when the talk turned to how much of an annoyance it was to keep him alive. How she finally gave the order for his execution. He remembered the stark terror in his heart, and the burning in his throat – how he pled wordlessly for deliverance, even though he knew he didn't deserve it.

He remembered when they came – bright red shields in the sea of dark, and how they fought the dark creatures with power and confidence. How they unbound him and took him away, and he'd been scared witless, not at the prospect of the unknown, more than the thought of what _she_ would do to him when she took him back.

He remembered how he'd tried to articulate this to the warriors – begging them to let him return to _her_. How they'd not understood him because of the soft timbre of his voice, long unused. How they'd stopped to rest, giving him generous rations, and he'd tried again to explain his predicament: that they would loose, s_he_ would find him, and if he didn't return of his own free will, _she_ would kill him.

He remembered when they told him that he was to return to his family – to Lucy, Susan, and Peter. And how he had felt his heart stop beating.

He remembered arriving in camp. How he was still cold to the bone, though they'd given him three cloaks for warmth. He remembered the lion coming out to greet their small party.

He remembered every wrong thing he'd done – not just with _her_, either – every mean thing he'd said to anyone. He saw, at high speed, every time he'd made Lucy cry. Every time he'd lashed out at his mother. Every fight he'd provoked at school. Every bad thought about Peter. Every malicious prank he'd pulled. _Every_ horrible thing he'd _ever_ done.

He remembered falling at the feet of the great golden creature, begging it to kill him. How the very act of kneeling before the great beast of prey was a relief, because he knew that he'd have collapsed had he stood.

He remembered the words the lion spoke; "Son of Adam, why do you wish for death?"

How he hadn't been able to answer. Not at first. Not for a long while. And when he'd realized that the lion would patiently wait for his answer, no matter how long it took, he'd found his voice.

He remembered how ashamed he had been to say the word aloud, but it's what he was: a traitor. A betrayer. He'd sold out innocent Narnians. He'd sold out his own family. And for what? A cup of cocoa and Turkish Delight?

_"I…I betrayed my brother and sisters. And the creatures in the woods."_

_"And why did you betray them, Son of Adam?"_

_"She promised me I could be her king. And rule over my brother. And I believed her."_

How he'd finally glanced up – looked at the lion in the face.

And seen such love in the frightening face. Such emotion in the large, animal eyes.

He remembered realizing that this was none other than Aslan.

_"It is a grievous thing, Son of Adam, to be taken in by the empty promises of the wicked. But it is a joyful thing to find the way back."_

_"But what if I haven't?"_ he'd blurted. _"What if I'm as terrible as she is, and…and I go wrong again?"_

He remembered the glorious feeling when the lion breathed on him – how he felt the courage to do what needed done. Even if it meant facing _her_ again.

_"As many times as you fall, you can rise, Son of Adam. But learning not to fall is what your journey is all about."_

He didn't remember going to sleep. He knew, though, that it was the first time he'd slept in days – his fear had robbed him of sleep, and he felt complete safety when Aslan was near.

-o-

' E

A professor of mine presented us with the interesting idea; a book of memories, written only in the format of remembering things. Most sentences started with "I remember..." in the book he showed us, and I found the idea so facinating that I wanted to do something similar.

Why do I enjoy tormenting Edmund?

To Be Continued? Maybe?

~Ayaia


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